


qui imperat?

by fyborg23



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Dubious Consent, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Massage, Open Ending, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 16:19:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4486395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyborg23/pseuds/fyborg23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course Avilius would have given Perron a difficult, <i>proud</i> slave-- who could fight.</p><p>Kris had no words to give to his new <i>dominus</i>, save a smirk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	qui imperat?

**Author's Note:**

> A birthday gift for Crystal/Perronah!
> 
> Warning for, well, Roman culture and semi-accurate reinterpretation thereof! Refer to tags for further information.

Perron would have been a 25-year man for the Empire, taking his own place in the right time among the  _Equites_ , if not for his least--favorite uncle dropping dead of apoplexy and his centurion sending him home to distant Gallica despite Perron’s restrained protests. Avilius was a rich man before he went down to Hades.

The villa is Perron’s, the land is Perron’s, and–- the slave is Perron’s. The slave, who bears a collar saying  _I have run away, please return me to my master Avilius of Burdigala_  is lead in on a leash by Avilius’ solicitor–- also now Perron’s, if he wanted to carry that line of thought further–-

The slave–-  _Kris_ , of all cognomen to use– is lead into Perron’s closed quarters. Both the slave and the solicitor watch Perron pull his sheets up to his chest, like some matron, as he blinked away the last of the strong wine and bad bread from the previous night. Kris and Perron look at each other, and Perron’s fairly sure Kris didn’t like what he saw of his new master.

Perron isn’t sure of his  _slave_  either, not even if Kris looked well-fed and strong. Kris has exceedingly long hair, like the Gaul barbarian that he is, and dark eyes that reminded Perron of shivering up in the mountains at midwinter. The solicitor had shrugged, claimed that Avilius was ‘enchanted with the barbarians’ and left as soon as he could, letting Kris glower at Perron through his curtain of hair.

Perron  _had_  tried to inquire about manumission, but upon hearing the words “this slave has tried to run away three times, sir,” Perron jerked his head towards Kris’ bowed head and raised his eyebrows. Of course Avilius would have given Perron a difficult,  _proud_  slave– who could fight.

Kris had no words to give to his new  _dominus_  save a smirk.

So Perron now is an unhappy master of an even unhappier slave. The villa is small, and not even the lovely Greek scrolls Perron brought with him can distract him from how pointedly unhappy Kris is. Kris shoves the clay vessels into wells, strokes fires alarmingly high, and the tiled floor shines. Neither of them talk, the Latin awkward on Kris’ tongue and the mastery awkward on Perron’s.

#

They circle each other, like stars in the sky, and Perron would have been content in his Greek lessons and careful of Kris’ resentment if not for the local _Equites_  deciding Perron’s mourning period is over. Kris walks into Perron’s study, his face looking oddly cheerful and Perron lifts his face up from the scrawled accounts Avilius had.

“Who was it at the door,” Perron asks, and Kris smiles, sharp like a freshly-ground sword.

“Romanus Festus wishes to host you in welcome since you have been in Greece for so long,” Kris says, and Perron closes his eyes. Jupiter’s balls!

Perron sighs, “It would be poor manners to refuse.”

“Barbaric, even,  _ere_.” Perron props up one eyelid, and surveys the lie of Kris’ broad shoulders before letting that go. Kris’ damnably proper, almost a good slave if not for the resentment Perron can see wrapped around him like the gauzy tunic that Kris wears. It becomes him too, in a strange way, but Perron knows he’s not a good master by the  _Equites_ ’ mark.

Burdigala boasts one bathhouse, and Perron remembers enough of Gaulish to know what comments the bath slaves are making about Kris. He blushes despite the hot water, and Kris scrubs his back slowly. Perron flicks his eyes over at the giggling shadows in the corner and says, “Be careful.”

“Of what,  _ere_?” Kris says, threading his sturdy fingers through Perron’s hair, and Perron bites back a moan.

Perron breathes, looks across the steamy water and says, “I know what  _look at that cock_  means.”

Kris laughs, “ _And what else do you know of Gaulish?_ ”

Perron sinks himself down to his neck and rises from the water before he turns back to Kris, slowly and carefully in Latin, “My name means nothing to you, _Kris_?”

Kris’ eyes flare with heat before he smothers it with lowered eyelids. Perron clenches his teeth, and turns towards the cold bath, but the cold water does not calm his temper. He feels a sharp sting of satisfaction watching Kris’ cock shrink from the cold immersion, and lingers a little longer than he would have were he free.

Perron slathers himself with oil before Kris takes it from him with a murmured _Please, ere_. He sighs, and Kris strokes him with warm hands and scrapes him clean with a strigil. The metal tool is too much like a blade, but Perron does feel clean.

Kris drapes Perron in a toga with the proper thin red stripes, as benefits an _Eques_ , and steps back. Perron can barely raise his arms, and Kris smirks, as if to say  _that’s what you Romans insist on having slaves for_. But he doesn’t say anything, so Perron cannot reprove him.

The banquet is like any other, rich old men teasing Perron about his  _fondness_ of Greece and harrumphing over the wine that Festus provides for them. The food is almost vile, greasy and bland, and Perron wishes Festus had spared some salt for his welcome. Kris lingers behind Perron’s shoulder, clearing away plates and refilling his cup.

The prefect, reclining to Perron’s right, grins and toasts Perron with his cup. Perron toasts back, and the prefect grins at Kris, dirty, before he drags his eyes over to Perron and says, “Even if your slave is a little long in the tooth, he still is a pretty boy.”

Perron sips, “Generous of you to say so, sir.”

The prefect–- and what  _is_  his name? Rome keeps changing their prefects this far west-– laughs, as if it’s a bawdy play. “Oh, don’t be so modest, Perron. Sure, your boy’s troublesome, but high spirits are better than low spirits, eh? You know of horses, don’t you? What would you prefer to ride?”

Perron doesn’t answer the prefect, but the prefect answers for himself, chuckling into his cup, “Nothing like getting your saddle cinched around the biggest and meanest stallion in the stable, hehe!”

Kris stiffens, and Perron curls a hand around Kris’ firm arm. Kris looks down at Perron’s hand, and Perron says, “Would you please ask after the dormouse? I do so love what the cook did to it.”

Perron hates dormouse–- which Kris knows–- but Kris bows and leaves, towards the kitchens to-– Perron doesn’t know, think of even more vile insults to share with the rest of the slaves. The prefect sighs after Kris’ retreating behind and says, “I don’t suppose you’d share?”

“No, sir,” Perron says, and prays to Mercury that the prefect says no more about it. The prefect shrugs, and turns on his side.

Kris turns up when Perron makes his farewells to Festus and Festiva, and says, “The cook wouldn’t tell me,  _ere_ ,” into Perron’s ear. Perron bites the inside of his cheek and leaves the villa, Kris his second shadow.

The night is still and clear, with the end of summer creeping in. They walk along the narrow path, and Kris says, “Thank you,” like he’s lancing a boil.

Perron says, “To raise a hand to a free man is death. I don’t want to find out what happens when a slave raises a hand to a prefect, useless or no.”

“It does make me wonder,” Kris says. Perron stops, and Kris doesn’t stumble into him because of course his eyesight is that good.

Kris almost never speaks when not spoken to. Perron’s content with this trend. But Kris sounds like someone about to press him, challenge  _openly_ – and Perron’s heart races.

“Wonder what, Kris.”

Kris steps closer, “They weren’t  _just_  joking about Greece. I know enough of you people that–” and if there was a moon Perron would have seen Kris smile– “you’re scared of all cock except yours. Well. Maybe not  _you_.”

Perron presses his toga closer around him, scrubbing his sweaty palms against the prickly wool, “You presume much. Careful.”

Kris just hums, and follows Perron to his villa, and unwraps him from his toga. Even folds it properly, and Perron shucks off his tunic and drapes it over a stool. He can feel his head regretting the wine, and he clutches at it in irritation. He lies down on the bed naked, and looks up at Kris.

“I do what I’m supposed to do,” Perron says, and drapes his arm over his eyes. He can feel Kris looking at him before he leaves his quarters.

Perron arises, stiff and weary, and Festus should have gone for better wine. Kris curls into the room, and slides open the shutters before he looks down at Perron. Something about Perron makes Kris raise his eyebrows, and Perron says, “Do I look that bad?”

“You look old,  _ere_.”

Perron huffs out a laugh, and rubs at his neck. “Not far from the truth.”

Kris narrows his eyes, and says, “Perhaps you need a massage.”

Perron isn’t going to refuse, and he lowers himself back to the bed and lies flat on his front. Kris leaves and comes back with oil, and Perron can smell mint. Kris presses his hands on Perron, and Perron sighs despite himself. The mint makes his skin tingle a little, and he lets himself relat along with the steady presses of Kris’ hands. Up and down, back and forth, up and down, and Perron lets himself droop, a slow easy rhythm.

The wind picks at the shutters, making the wood clatter, and Perron lifts his head muzzily. Kris urges him onto his back, and then just stops.

Perron looks down at his cock, and shrugs, “Ignore it.” It’s just a massage. He hasn’t been touched by anyone except Kris for too long. Kris strokes down Perron’s thighs, pressing his thumbs on the inside, and grins when Perron’s cock twitches. Perron doesn’t look him in the eye, and Kris keeps smoothing his hands all over Perron, keeps returning to his thighs and inching closer to his cock.

Kris hitches himself closer, close enough that Perron can feel how heavy he is, and presses his hand just above the wet tip of Perron’s cock, stroking the skin of his belly. He leans down to Perron’s ear, and Perron can hear his breath become ragged when Perron shifts his thighs wider.

Perron isn’t being the slut here, not with Kris pressing his own cock against the edge of the bed. Perron looks up, and Kris’ face is flushed. So maybe that’s what makes him smirk and say “ _Make me spend._ ”

It sounds a lot filther in Gaulish than it does in prim, pressed Latin. Kris licks his lips, and wraps his hand around Perron’s cock, sturdy and sure. Perron folds his hands behind his head, and watches Kris through lowered eyelids. Kris strokes him, presses his fingers along his foreskin, and the mint makes this smell almost  _obscene_ , like a perfumed whore’s bed.

Perron doesn’t thrust up into Kris’ grip, not when Kris moves his hand so firmly, thumbing the skin under his balls and cradling them. Kris flicks his eyes up at Perron, and strokes him faster, biting his lip in concentration. He twists his hand, lifts Perron’s thigh up to his lap and jerks him, rubbing at his cockhead on nearly every stroke, and Perron clenches his hands against themselves the more Kris works his hands.

He spends, shivery and fluttering and staining the front of Kris’ tunic. Perron closes his mouth, and Kris smears come off his hand on his own tunic.

“ _Satisfied?_ ” Kris says, getting off the bed roughly.

Perron sighs, “Yes,” his throat feeling slightly tired, like the rest of him. Kris bows and almost speeds out of his quarters. Perron falls into a light doze, and wakes up with a curse on his lips. He handed Kris a lever to use on him– his own prick, no less!– and Perron knows Kris well enough to know he’d use it.

Kris is well aware of what he looks like. Perron heaves a sigh. He’s not one of _those_  masters, who use and abuse their slaves. And what is a hand?

He eases out into the solarium, dressed in his usual tunic and watches Kris sweep the courtyard. Kris turns at the feel of eyes on him, sees Perron, and smirks before he turns back to work.

Perron has a villa, has land, and has a troublesome slave.

#

Kris does turn out to be useful, when he murmurs to Perron not to drink deeper from the wine at the next banquet. Perron stops, and Kris offers him a rarity– sweet water– and he takes it. The water sits heavily in his stomach when he sees Antonius Calvus come in, to much dismay and furor.

Antonius Calvus grins meanly at Perron, and Perron lifts up his cup, “Good supper, sir.”

“What tragedy befell you, Perron Bellus! To have your own uncle die so suddenly!”

“I do not reject what the gods send me,” Perron says. Antonius Calvus smirks, and waves a beringed hand, as if to say  _ah, gods_. It doesn’t escape Perron that Antonius Calvus bears a phallum pendant, but he keeps his mouth shut and his eyes open.

The water saves him from punching this popinjay, and lets him ask Marc-Marc about Saturnalia. Marc-Marc grins, and overrides Antonius Calvus and his talk about how underhanded Mario Grandis is. Perron has nothing against Mario Grandis and his legion but Mario Grandis has the ear of the emperor.

Like drawing the attention of the gods, drawing the attention of the Emperor is dangerous.

Perron rests a hand on Kris’ shoulder on the way back to the villa and squeezes it. Kris nods, and they go back in silence.

#

Summer slips into fall which slips into winter. Winter draws heavy and grey, and Perron can feel each year he was out on patrol before he finagled a transfer to the Greek provinces. Kris moves stiffly too, and Perron knows sword from whip marks. Kris had a life before he was captured, more than probably fought valiantly before they clasped the chains on him. They may share a mother tongue–- but they are not equals.

Perron would rather be stiff than have to ask Kris to–-  _massage_  him, make Kris use his hands on him–-

He pulls his cloak tighter and sighs at the embers. Kris stokes the fire, and says, “You haven’t been sleeping well.”

“No,” Perron says. What does Kris want?

“Wood is expensive,  _ere_. Perhaps we would be warmer if we were to share quarters. I could sleep at the foot of the bed, if you’d prefer.”

“I kick. You’ll sleep on the side away from the door.”

Kris smiles down at the fire, and says, “Of course.”

Perron grows used to having a man slumber next to him, heavy and warm and hard, and Kris looks softer when he has his eyes closed. Perron’s bed is warmer, and that’s a  _problem_. Perron wakes up hot and thirsty and finds himself clinging to Kris, his cock nestled next to Kris’ hips. Kris gives no sign, but Perron wakes up one morning with Kris’ cock resting against the small of his back, Kris rubbing it against his ass in a way that makes Perron blush for all of the people Kris has fucked.

Another morning, he arches awake, gasping, and clutches at the head swallowing him down. Perron moans, shudders, and tries not to whimper when Kris bobs his head, clutching at Perron’s thigh. He can’t bear to see Kris’ lips wrapped around him, so fucking obscene. Perron throws his arms over his face, his legs draped over Kris’ winter-pale shoulder.

He spends, of course he does, with Kris sucking him off like he was meant to do it, so hard it’s almost painful.

He gets up early after that. It’s all Perron can do not to turn around and look at Kris’ sleepy gaze, his hair mussed up and stubble shadowing his face.

Kris leers at him when he sees Perron at his table, and Perron watches him stroll away. He thinks about thumbing Kris open, whether Kris’d be quiet or demanding, where Kris’d like to be touched. Perron closes his eyes and rubs at his face. Kris creeps up, gives him warm wine, brushes the back of Perron’s neck, and Perron has to bite his lip bloody to keep from moving into Kris’ touch.

Perron doesn’t miss the satisfied expression on Kris’ face when he moves away.

#

Perron approaches Saturnalia with some  _apprehension_. Even out here in Burdigala it’s a significant holiday, the ideal excuse for people to get drunk at midday and for slaves to act like free men. Perron doesn’t let himself think about how Kris’d taste if he sucked his cock, or whether that cock of his is just for show. Much.

Kris wears a proper tunic, clean and crisp–- one that happens to belong to Perron–- and he smirks when he notices the seams strain to meet his sides. Perron can see the top of Kris’ knees. Perron slips into Kris’ tunic, and Kris smirks when the collar falls into a V around Perron’s neck. He steps closer, thumbs Perron’s neck and grins.

“You look nice,” Kris says, and Perron rolls his eyes. He does provide Kris with real clothes, but if he wants to preen, let him preen. Kris strolls into the square, and Perron’s skin tingles with the cold while of course, Kris is warm in Perron’s cloak. The wine helps to stave off the cold, for a little bit, and then for a little bit, until Kris pours wine down Perron’s throat and tunic. Perron shivers when Kris sucks the wine off from his skin and the cloth covering it.

Kris flicks his eyes up at him, and presses his fingers to Perron’s lips, says, “ _You must have some experience_.”

It’s Perron’s turn to smirk, and Kris clutches at him before they both totter back to their villa. The door slams shut behind Kris as he rucks up Perron’s stained tunic, squeezing and lifting his ass. Perron grinds against his front, manages, “Venus’ tits, if you wanted to fuck me, now would be a good time.”

Kris kisses Perron– and Perron gasps before Kris softens the kiss, makes it smaller. Kris grins, “You Romans are so easily shocked.”

“ _Am I a Roman today?_ ” Perron manages, gripping at Kris’ cock and stroking it through his tunic. Kris laughs, almost soft, and pushes him against the mosaic wall.

“Shut up, Perron,” Kris says, and slips a fingertip along Perron’s asshole. Perron flushes, squirms towards and away from it. Kris’ hands are everywhere, stroking and teasing, and he shoves Perron onto the bed. Perron leans back on his elbows, watches Kris strip and winces at how he mistreats his tunic.

Kris quirks an eyebrow, and Perron peels off his own, gets on all fours. He looks over his shoulder at Kris, who looks more than a little stunned.

“Scared,  _dominus_?”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Kris says, sloping oil over his fingers, and Perron shivers every time he presses in, feeling like he’s hanging off the edge of a mountain.

“ _It’s ok, dominus, I live to serve_ ,” Perron says, and Kris makes a strangled noise in his throat. Perron can feel Kris lifting and sliding his cock along his cleft, making a few pushes and slipping. He feels filthy already, and Kris pushes in just this side of rough, smooth after his glans. Perron pushes back, pushes himself down against the bed, feeling himself clutch at Kris like a needy  _boy_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Kris says, curving his hand over Perron’s back, and holding his cheeks open with his thumb. Perron moans, and that makes Kris shove in deeper, maybe shudder at how tight Perron is–-

Perron wants more; if he’s getting fucked he wants to get  _fucked_ , and grits, “That’s what you call fucking in Gaul?”

Kris seizes his hips, thrusts into him, rough strokes that just miss pleasure, and says, “This what you call fucking in Rome?”

Perron’s fingers clutches at the bedroll, and he levers himself up just enough that they both gasp at how Kris curves inside Perron. Perron licks his lips, “No, this is how we fuck here–-”

Kris almost whines, grinds his hips against Perron’s ass, and Perron sighs, feeling sticky and full, like he had too many sweets. Kris’ so thick inside him, and Perron palms himself greedily, needing  _more_ –-

He sees Perron stroking himself off, and he swears, too filthy and dirty for Perron to really translate, but the thrusts of his cock says it all, deep and steady–-

Perron sees stars before he comes and collaspes flat, plastering himself against his come. He can swear Kris  _sobs_  before he comes into him, and they lie like that, Kris covering Perron for too long and Perron knows he’s going to _ache_  tomorrow, head and ass. Kris looks wrecked, and Perron pulls at his hair, saying, “Getting cocky, there.”

Kris sighs, and the collar glints in the low fire light, “It was nice to dream.”

“We could still,” Perron offers, a midwinter gift.

Kris is very still for the rest of the long night.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr!](http://www.hastybooks.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [secundum dominum](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6489610) by [fyborg23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyborg23/pseuds/fyborg23)




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